


ruined by a simple sweetness

by IronButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Johnlock-Freeform, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronButterfly/pseuds/IronButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's not love." Sherlock said, pulling away, and John felt as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. "I already know that you're brave, but there are many cowards out there - ready to die as courageous noblemen. But that is never a sign of true love."</p><p> </p><p>(Victorian era AU: John is the only son of a wealthy nobleman, and Sherlock is a young violinist from the streets of London.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ruined by a simple sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> (UPDATE: Okay, so I've been trying to post this fic for almost a week now, and, for some reason, it wouldn't be uploaded successfully. I've already lost count of how many times this work got deleted or ended up in the drafts...I guess this is gonna be the last shot.)
> 
> This is the ambitious AU idea that would not leave me alone. There will be heartbreak. There will be angst. There will be sappiness and love, too. Just so you know, I am completely messing with canon...everything both in the Doyle universe and out of it, and I'm not even feeling sorry about it.
> 
>  
> 
> The work is not betaed yet, and probably won't be for a while, not until I'm completely done with my exams. Needless to say that none of the characters actually belong to me. I've only bent and shaped them a bit.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy.

 

I loved him.

 

Should I repeat those words of love, that will, undoubtedly, seem ridiculous and irksome to the skeptics who have completely forgotten the charm of life, but which are odd revelations to newly bloomed loving hearts?

 

Every time I looked into his amazing blue eyes, it seemed like there were million stars sparkling in the endless depth of them, every time I heard his joyous laugh, it seemed as if there was a playful rivulet chuckling along with it, every time that I took him into my arms and felt his soft panting breaths against my ear, felt the sweet nuzzle of his curls against my cheek - I became possessed with such a crazy feeling, under the effect of which, I was ready to accomplish the biggest heroics or the wickedest crimes - had he so much as asked me to.

 

Did he love me back? That, I do not know still, but back then, I believed whole heartily, that he was not faking it, when convincing me that the feeling was reciprocated. I believed him when he swore, that even death could not do as apart.

Back then, I was studying to become a physician: a surgeon, if being precise, for the dramatic progress of the medicine deeply fascinated me at the time, and I wanted nothing more than to explore that thrilling part of my era. Confident in my youthful abilities and especially in my infinite desire to please, I was filled with luminous hopes of a stoic future. Excited by the image of that future and encouraged by my carefree life and charged with fervent energy, I was ready to seize my fortune and glory. 

But...

Oh, that _but_...

Even now, when everything's faded away, everything's been erased finally and irrecoverably, even now, when I remember those tender moments spent in his company... I can hardly hold back my scream of pain and rage - that's how deep and severe the wounds of my soul are, that's how badly my poor heart has been scarred by those moments. 

But let me carry on with my story. 

Once, on a lovely spring evening...

 

* * *

 

...the likes of which only happened in London, John Watson, who came from a wealthy noble family, was up in his rooms, preparing for his usual stroll along the Thames. 

He wasn't a young man with a particularly striking appearance, but that was not to say that he wasn't attractive. His eyes were blue, like the clear sky of a hot summer afternoon, his gaze bright and infinite as the horizons of the Adriatic sea. His golden locks embraced his head with pleasant, slight curliness. When he smiled (but when did he not?) it brought out dimples on his glorious cheeks and under the pink lips shone the pearly white and bold teeth. Always bright as the sun in spring, always joyous as a little kid and always jittery as a restless butterfly. 

John was still up in his rooms, busy fixing the collar of his topcoat, ready to leave the house, when he heard it...A beautiful serenade  played by a skilled hand on the violin. John hurried to the open window and looked down towards the street.

 

The musician was a youngster with an overly large hat and a worn blue scarf. But, _oh_ , how melodic and glamorous was the tune, that John felt as if it was being played on the very strings of his own heart. He instinctively arched out of the window and listened with his whole consciousness and undivided attention. John's whole being, as if turned into an ear, was selfishly consuming the body-shivering sounds, which the young violinist was summoning with the strings of his violin, like water fumbling from the deep outflow of a fountain: unforced and fluent.

  

John was carefully holding his breath so as not to make a sound. Tears of admiration were glistening in his eyes.

 

The violin fell silent at last, and with the violin, it seemed, as if everything in the nature stilled, too.

 

"Who are you?" John asked, his voice barely a breath. The violinist turned around, startled and obviously caught off guard, so he cleared his throat and spoke again, louder this time. "Look up, young maestro." 

 

The young artist looked up.

 

"Can you..." John paused briefly. "Please, take off your hat. I cannot see your face."

 

And the young man took off the large hat, swiping his long curls off his forehead with a fluid motion of his head and looked up. Oh, what beautiful eyes, yet strict and thoughtful and melancholy. What a captivating face, but pale and unhappy, like a statue made of marble. What a proud and highly held posture.

 

"What is your name?" called John.

"Sherlock, sire."

 

"Sherlock, play something for me."

 

Once again the strings played a tune, softer and even more enchanting than earlier, and John, glued to the window, couldn't get enough of that wondrous melody, until the strings let out their last tender sigh and fell silent.

 

"Tell me, Sherlock, who are you?"

 

"I'm an orphan."

 

"Who was your father?" John inquired.

 

"A mere peasant." Sherlock replied reluctantly, letting his bow fall to his side. "He died in a road accident."

 

"Your mother?"

 

"My mother followed my father."

 

"Don't you have a...brother or a sister?"

 

"I have no siblings, sire."

 

"Would you like me to be your brother, then?" John asked heatedly. "I'll ask my father and you'll live in our house and you'll always play such beautiful melodies for me. My father's a generous man, he won't refuse me on this. You won't  have to wander alone from street to street to earn a loaf of bread ever again. We are quite wealthy."

 

"My pride wouldn't allow me to accept your kind offer, sire."

 

"My name is John."

 

"I'm too proud, _John_."

 

"We won't steal your pride, Sherlock." John said with a smirk.

 

"You will, when you give me a bite of your bread." Sherlock challenged back stubbornly and turned to leave, but didn't even get to take one step as John's sudden cry of 'Wait!' stopped him in his tracks.

 

John threw a coin in front of the musician's feet and petulantly stepped away from the window. But immediately came back again.

 

"Sherlock!" He called.

 

The young man, who had taken the money and wanted to leave, stopped once again and looked up.

 

"Can you at least promise to return every evening, at this same hour and play under my window?"

 

"I will." Sherlock agreed after an eternity. "But not for this." he said, holding up the coin.

 

"But?"

 

"For you." Sherlock said simply and this time in front of the young musician's feet fell John Watson's silky handkerchief, with the promise of new meetings and so much more, than ought to have been felt that day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John was a hearty, full-bloodied fellow, full of spirit and energy, the very opposite of Sherlock, who was pale, and mostly gloomy. But they had some things in common, and it was a bond of union, when John found out that the violinist was as friendless as him.

 

It was an unusual way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. And when John, two days later, broke his leg and was subjected to bed for ten days, Sherlock visited him even then. He used to come over to John's window or sometimes to his balcony, but never into the house. He inquired after him and always played some of his melodies for him.  


 

At first their meetings would last for ten or twenty minutes, but soon his visits lengthened and before the end of the month they were close friends.

 

And one day, Sherlock invited John down to his(John's) garden, and John, of course, accepted the invitation.

 

"I spy something green." John chirped, and Sherlock sighed, a bit annoyed, as he had just finished listing off almost every green thing in their surroundings.

 

"The back of your head, when I knock you off the bench and onto the grass."

 

"Wrong." John said with a self-satisfied grin. "It's that tree over there."

 

" _All_ the trees are green, John." Sherlock sputtered incredulously.

 

"Yes, but they're not all _that_ tree, now, are they?"

 

"Idiot." Sherlock told him, pretending to be annoyed and trying to hide away his smile. He jumped off his place when a light, feminine snort was heard a few feet away from them, but at the sight of John's sister, he visibly relaxed.

 

"Are you not tired of each other yet?" Harriet Watson asked amused and stepped closer to place a tray with two glasses of cool lemonade on the far side of the bench.

 

"Never." John replied swiftly and tugged at Sherlock's sleeve to get his friend to sit down next to him.

 

"Good morning, Miss Watson." The young violinist bowed to her elegantly, much to John's annoyance and to Harriet's delight.

 

"A _very_ good morning, Mr. Holmes." Harry greeted just as pleasantly. "I see you and my dear brother have found an...understanding of some sort. I simply want to remind the young maestro, that he is always welcome in our...garden and in our house, whenever he likes."

 

John watched Sherlock flush an endearing shade of pink, as the violinist stammered to say his thank you's and then politely refused the offer. This time he didn't flat out refuse, though, John thought smugly. Maybe that wouldn't be quite out of the picture, either...

 

But John didn't dare dwell on the idea too much, and he snapped out of his daydream, remembering that he had left his Sherlock with his clingy sister and tried to get rid of her as smoothly as possible, hoping Harry wouldn't notice.

 

Harry noticed.

 

"I spy a nut." Harry said out of the blue.

 

"You're doing it wrong." John retorted, scoffing at his sister impatiently. "You must say something descriptive and not the thing itself..."  


 

"John." Sherlock said and faked a cough, and Harry burst out laughing.

 

"Sherlock wins. Who's next?" 

 

"Hey!"

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock always came. 

Every evening, at down, a new sweet melody would caress John's hearing.

 

And John didn't even notice how over time, their friendship had blossomed into something more meaningful...more beautiful.

 

_"Sherlock, are you  so proud that you won't come up to my rooms?"_

 

Silently, Sherlock had obliged the teen's wish. 

 

_"Sherlock, are you so proud that you won't let me lay my head on your knee?"_

 

  
_"Oh..."_ the young musician had groaned with glassy eyes, and his violin had produced a series of such breathtaking sounds, the likes of which John hadn't heard before.

 

John's golden hair had laid upon Sherlock's knees and John had looked up at the violinist with adoration and happiness in his eyes.

 

The young musician had looked down at the miracle that was John Watson, resting sated, upon his knees, and he himself had wondered where those new melodies had been coming from?

 

"Sherlock, are you so proud that you won't give me one kiss?"

 

The violin had fallen silent.

 

The young musician had slowly bent his head, closing the distance between their faces and gently pressing his lips to John's.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're beautiful." John said.

 

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock snorted.

 

"How mean." John huffed, but couldn't hide the small tug of his lips.

 

"Oh, excuse my language." Sherlock said, bowing his head a little. "I meant to say: don't be foolish, my good captain."

 

And there, John grunted in displeasure and hid his face in his hands. He knew that he shouldn't have told Sherlock about his wish to join the army. It was all coming back to him now.

 

Sherlock started giggling, and John smirked before letting out a playful growl and hoisting Sherlock up and dropping him on the bed. The violinist yelped indignantly and made an attempt at casting a half hearty glare in John's direction, which soon evolved into a breathy moan.

 

John had immediately crawled up after him and now was showering the sensitive area of Sherlock's neck with hot kisses and lingering nibbles. John gently kept his tender kissing, until Sherlock was writhing restlessly under him and he could feel the man vibrate with want. 

 

With a grin he lifted his head and all traces of coherent thought left his head at once. But was Sherlock a sight to behold: curls ruffled in every direction, eyes dark and hooded, lids lowered and pupils blown wide, and panting breaths were escaping his heart shaped lips.

 

John groaned and dove in again, planting kisses all over Sherlock's cheeks, temples and eye lids.  "You are my sun." He confessed between tender caresses. "You are my moon. My stars."

 

John pulled back once again if only to catch Sherlock's eye and tell him. "I love you. Heavens, Sherlock, I love you _so_ much."

 

"Forget about the army." Sherlock whispered with a twinkle in his eye. "You must become a writer: a poet, for you speak such beautiful words."

 

"These are not mere words, my dear heart." John murmured back, leaning in again and kissing Sherlock's mouth. "I love you. And I intend to show you just how sincerely and tenderly I do."

 

And he did.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I've heard from the people of the north a fine saying: a pirate should never fall in love with the world beyond the seas. Their treasure lies on islands and buried in wooden chests. They must not seek it in palaces deep in the smile of princes or princesses."

 

John gave a quick grin. "Are you certain that's a saying? Seems more like an age old song to me..."

 

"And the day that they do..." Sherlock continued, ignoring him fabulously. "is the day that they're ruined."

 

"I don't understand what you're trying to say." John said, after a thoughtful minute of silence. "What have pirates to do with you and with my proposal?"

 

The violinist gave him a sad knowing smile and reached to stroke a hand through John's golden hair. "Princes are meant for thrones. For crowns of gold to be laid upon their curls." He then withdrew his hand, and John resisted the urge to lean and seek the absent warmth of Sherlock's palm. "I can not offer you anything of that sort. You are the kind of treasure that a map won't give to me..."

 

"That argument holds absolutely no strength anymore." John interrupted, grasping Sherlock's lithe fingers midair. "Not when you are the _only_ treasure I will have. I don't care if you are a cripple, a missing bastard or the least favorable person in England: I want you with me. And it is I who should be offering you gold and jewels just to have you by my side."

 

"I could not accept that." Sherlock shook his head desperately. "You know that I wouldn't."

 

"Going back to the ocean...and sailing away is not an option." John snapped back, apparently done being gentle. "Running away never is."

 

"I am not running away!"

 

"Then what do you call _this_!?"

 

Sherlock flinched as John's voice echoed in the empty room. The violinist had that gentle look on his face, which John loved dearly, but right now could not stand. It was an expression he usually wore when someone, in Sherlock's opinion, was being ridiculous, and right now John was not.

 

"John-"

 

"You would be so cruel as to leave me alone?" John whispered, turning his head sharply, as he felt tears suddenly and violently well up in his eyes. They burned and for a moment he could not breathe. 

 

He drew a shaky breath, as Sherlock's hands went up to cradle John's face.

 

"You won't be." Sherlock swore. "I shall return to you. I promise."

 

"Don't make promises you can not keep." John begged and tugged at the skinny man's tunic, until Sherlock got the hint and pressed closer to him. "Please, don't make me live without you."

 

"Do you love me, John?"

 

"How...how can you ask me that?" John swallowed with difficulty, his eyes drifting down at the man pressed to his chest, and the ravenous curls ruffled like a halo. "Your doubt pains me immensely, for I love you more than life itself." he paused briefly. "I could die for you!"

 

"That's not love." Sherlock said, pulling away, and John felt as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. "I already know that you're brave, but there are many cowards out there - ready to die as courageous noblemen. But that is never a sign of true love."

 

Sherlock took a shaky breath and turned to John once more, pressing their foreheads together and prompting his best friend and lover to look at him. "You must understand, John: there is an impassible gap between us. You're up there, and I'm down here. And I'm always looking up." he paused and then continued in a murmur. "If you love me,  John, if you truly care for me, you'll let me go for now. You'll let me try and stand on my own feet."

 

"Where'll you go?" John managed to choke out at last, holding the violinist's face between his hands and caressing the younger man's cheekbones.

 

"Dublin. There's this man- there's this _great_ man, who's willing to help me. To take me as his apprentice. He'll teach me, John. He'll fix all the flaws in my playing. If I'm lucky enough, I may even be able to attend a few lectures of other subjects, too."

 

"How long?" John whispered.

 

"He's ready to support my payment for three years."

 

"Do you want to go?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Will you miss me?"

 

"God, _John_..." Sherlock breathed out in disbelief  and  resisted the urge to take the other man by the shoulders and just shake some sense into him. "I miss you constantly, even when you're _right_ here with me. I'd wish for you to never stop being close, being within an arm's reach away from me. And I swear to you, John, I _swear it_...I'm not giving up on us!"

 

"Have you gone soft, my love?" John laughed lightly, blinking away his tears.

 

"I'm always soft for you, John Watson." Sherlock confessed quietly and whipped away John's unshed tears. "That's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and  I'd still open my arms and say _'Come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you'_."

 

And John arched up and covered Sherlock's mouth with his own, swallowing the rest of the violinist's heartfelt speech.

 

 

 

* * *

 

_London, 20th September 1880_

 

_Dear, Sherlock,_

 

_In your last letter you were wondering why I had written to you in such an odd manner, 'as if melancholiness has dawned on your soul' you wrote. You have the right to feel surprised and to assume such things, for in the two years since our parting, you have never received such a poorly written letter from me._

 

_'What's happened to you?' you asked- Nothing, absolutely nothing's happened to me. I'm the same as I was on that lovely April afternoon, which we spent in our garden. I'm living among the same riches, my parents and sister are whole and healthy and still as caring and loving as you remember them. Consequently, I should be happy, right? Not a thing should be saddening me, shouldn't it? But come and see, I'm not quite so happy. On the contrary, lately I've been miserable without any obvious reason at all. You won't ever see me the way I was before- giggling at every little thing or doing ridiculous things in a fit of mischief. Remember how you always talked at me for being irresponsible and silly? You won't ever see me as the careless youngster I used to be, who'd sulk and not talk to you for days, when you got angry with me(to be frank, it was my policy of getting cross with you before you could do it: I couldn't bear the thought that I made you distance yourself from me). You won't ever see my previous childishness, for I have long rejected my youth. My heart, it seems, has closed off, and there's not a chance of unlocking it again._

 

_All those things that I used to like whole heartily, now have no appeal to me. I've stopped going to the club - almost never, and theatre - I visit it rarely. I almost immediately get bored of everything and everyone. Now I only enjoy solitude and it angers me immensely, when anyone dares bother me. When I'm alone, involuntary thoughts begin flooding my mind. Sometimes I get so engulfed in my musings, that I forget about everything else entirely. What I think about so much? That I do not know myself, I only know that no matter what I start thinking of, inevitably turns into a bittersweet revelation. Sometimes after indulging my thoughts, when I waken at last, I feel that my eyes have filled with tears and I almost weep in despair. There are also times when I get terribly lazy, though, as you know, I hardly have anything to do except for my studies. Sometimes I get so bored that I don't even wish to leave my bed in the mornings._

 

_But there's one thing that I know for certain - my heart, it longs for you. It aches for you hopelessly that it could ever reach you. You matter to me, Sherlock. You matter so much, you matter in the worst and best ways possible. I hope you know that you rest in my heart, and you've all but consumed it, even after all this time. Every promise every word you've ever uttered to me rests there, the good ones...and the bad ones. Every thought of mine lingers on you. If this isn't love, I don't know what it is..._

 

_There's also this pain. Oh, it hurts, thinking that you didn't care enough and left me, ~~tossed me aside~~ No, it was unfair of me to think that. Forgive me, beloved. I know and of course I understand your reasons, and you'll achieve success, you'll taste glory and triumph and God knows, Sherlock you deserve it!_

 

_How are your studies going? In your last letter you said, he's working you too hard? Oh how I wish I could ask you these things to your face and not through paper...Please, write to me often, don't forget about me._

_ To Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker St._

 

 

* * *

 

John wrote to him always. And Sherlock wrote back to him. 

 

Years passed and one day, on an ordinary autumn afternoon, John Watson had the privilege to open his door in front of the violinist once again. He had grown to be a very attractive man, as expected, kept a short beard (more like a stubble) which actually complemented his face, which had grown a trifle thinner over the past few years.

 

They had embraced, of course and John invited him in, made him eat and rest and tell him all about his time away. And Sherlock told him. He patiently answered to all of his questions, politely enquiring about a few thing himself, a bit hesitant as to how much he was allowed to ask. But John spoke to him animatedly and excitedly, chasing his doubts away, and when, after dinner, John wrapped his arms around  Sherlock's waist and dragged him away to the garden, all Sherlock could think was of the warmth of those masculine arms, which had gotten stronger in the past years, and of how close they were to each other, and of the way John looked at him, so loving, so tender and so-so-  


 

So _desperate_ and John begged Sherlock to tell him what he could do to persuade Sherlock to stay for at least a little longer. He sounded so noble and so worried, and Sherlock could not help but smile and lift a hand to play with the hair at John's neck.

 

"What need do you have of a mere violinist, my captain?" he asked, teasingly, and John took Sherlock's hand in his and pressed it to his cheek. 

 

"Do you still not know why I need you?" he asked sadly. "Have I not made it plain enough, Sherlock?"

 

His eyes were fixed upon Sherlock's face, and Sherlock felt himself blush, but did not avert his gaze. I can't, John. He brushed his thumb across John's cheek. Not yet. Then he slid his hand down so his fingers were touching John's lips, warmed by John's breaths. 

 

"Heavens, you're cold!" John exclaimed suddenly, and Sherlock withdrew his hand, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Come." said John, and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, a warm, heavy weight which Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed. "There is a fire in my rooms. You will have tea with me and rest for a bit. And I shall hear no protests. You work yourself too hard, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock let himself be led towards John's bedroom, leaving the argument hanging in the air and knowing too well that John would not be the one to resume it later. 

 

He never hated his violin and pride more than he did at the moment.

* * *

 

 

 

John kept writing, but Sherlock seemed to write back rarer and rarer. 

 

John Watson tried not to let his heart break.

 

 

* * *

 

London, 1884.

The press had informed the famous violinist Sherlock Holmes' arrival, who should give a singular concert at the great theatre. Lately, besides the british press, whole of the european and american presses had been talking about this new star, who had sparked on the musical horizon.

On the night of the concert, there were so many people that the halls of the theatre were bursting at the seams. 

 

  
_Sherlock Holmes_...Everybody eagerly waited for his performance. 

 

And then, at last, he walked onto the stage.

 

And everybody, as one, broke into a round of earthshaking applause.

 

Could this be the same Sherlock, whom every Londoner knew as that young violinist from the street, who used to wander about like a tramp?

 

Yes, _yes_ , it was him. And there, there were the same melodies - only more virally mature, more confident, more self-contained; at times flowing with languid softness and then all of a sudden full of mettle of a battle cry.

 

And oh _how_ enchanting were those melodies. How beautiful and attractive Sherlock Holmes was himself: tall and proud with stature, ocean blue eyes filled with determination, flushed face, hair tussled like a halo atop his ears...All of his appearance had a special kind of completion with the magical sounds pouring from his violin.

 

When the sounds quavered and the melody faded in the grave like silence of the grand hall and when the musician bowed once and turned and left the stage, the entire audience sat still and silent for a long while, as if under the spell of a sweet daydream. And then, suddenly, as though someone had come back to life and resurrected from their grave, the whole auditorium moved and the applause was _thunderous_.

_ Holmes...Sherlock Holmes...Sherlock...Genius...New Stradivarius... _

And everyone was hurrying to the edge of the stage, to properly shake hands with the genius and offer their admiration and gratitude to the young maestro. And Sherlock was filled with glee, a happy sated feeling that he wasn't even trying to hide. 

 

But then, all of a sudden he froze mid conversation, he stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, everything stopped as right before the curtain came down entirely, he had been able to catch sight of a painfully familiar face. 

 

 

_John._

 

 

He got distracted immediately and all of his senses of _greet, be polite, please_ quickly turned into _greet, be polite, dismiss as quickly as possible_. And at the first chance he got he ran to the stage door, ignoring the rest of his fans, too overwhelmed with the fact of _John_ , John there, John with him again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Where on earth was Sherlock?

 

Thought a slightly disoriented John Watson as he proceeded to elbow his way through the crowd of the hall. And a sudden feeling of dread washed over him at the idea that the man might have already left...

 

  
_Don't be an idiot, Watson_ , his inner voice, which sounded suspiciously like his sister's, told him. _It's his first grand concert in London, he would not have been able to leave so easily, even if he had wanted to._  


What a concert it had been. And oh how Sherlock had played! John had, of course, witnessed Sherlock play the violin many times before, had the man play it for him on more than one occasion, but never like this before. All those restless studies and the separation had paid off fairly, for Sherlock had mastered the instrument and now played it as if he himself was a part of the violin. Through the entire performance John Watson could not tear his gaze away from Sherlock. A few humiliating times his eyes had filled with tears, with tears of joy and pride and so much _love_. He had been afraid to move, afraid to blink lest Sherlock vanish in flames, appear to be a mirage of his frustrating imagination, lest he...

John was about to walk through the double doors, when he was suddenly grabbed (not too gently) by his arm and whirled to the side. He turned harshly toward the offender and was about to give them a piece of his mind, but whatever harsh words he had in mind, died in his throat at the sight of the familiar, now blazing with mischief, blue eyes and the cupid bow lips, now shaping a sly, but contented smile. 

 

"Come with me, John." Sherlock told him and without waiting for an answer, led them through a narrow hallway, and John, as if in a haze, followed.

 

Soon they reached a door, and Sherlock whispered 'my dressing room', although John hadn't asked. He turned the doorknob, ushered John in, then shut and locked the door and leaned against it heavily, his shoulders sagging.   


They stared. Sherlock looked at John, and John looked right back, as if daring the man to look away. Sherlock didn't.

 

For minutes they stood there, mesmerised and disbelieving, until finally Sherlock was satisfied that John was not simply a vision, not a mere hallucination, and the biggest grin dawned on his face. John felt his own face mirroring it, with his heart in his throat.

 

"I was going to come to you." Sherlock blurted out suddenly, breaking the silence. "When I was finished here, first thing I was going to do  was come to your house and play under your window and ask if you'd care to move in with me."

 

John smiled and felt his eyes sting and his top lip quiver. He quickly gathered himself whole. "I'm here now." he managed to choke out.

"You're here now." Sherlock agreed, his face softening into a smile. 

The dressing room wasn't all that big and if either of them were to take a step or two, they'd be reunited at last, and Sherlock was about to make that step, when a knock on his door stopped him in his tracks. He held his breath, hoping that whoever it was would soon get tired and leave, but the knocking got more and more insistent. 

"Busy!" he barked out at last.

"Mr. Holmes," came an unsure voice from behind the door. "there's a woman who wants to see you."

 

"I said I'm busy!"

 

"She insists, Mr. Holmes. She comes from a very wealthy family and-"

 

"I'm not accepting anyone tonight. Now, go."

 

"She introduced herself as Miss Adler and she swears she won't move from her spot, until you-"

 

" _Fine_!" Sherlock declared with an exasperated sigh. "I'll see her. Go and tell her that I'll meet her in a minute."

 

"Alright, sire."

 

The violinist was looking at John with an apologetic smile, and before he could open his mouth to inquire about the mysterious woman, Sherlock was all over him, kissing his face, his cheeks, his temples and then he pulled back a bit, so their eyes could lock and leaning in, he kissed John fiercely on the mouth.

 

"Don't leave, yet." Sherlock breathed raggedly once they pulled apart and pressed their foreheads together. "Wait for me. I'll sort this out and run right back to you."

 

John nodded immediately and Sherlock's face lit up with another smile and before John could blink, he was being kissed again. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't, Sherlock had turned and strode out, leaving John alone in the middle of the dressing room.

 

He couldn't help the triumphant laugh that escaped his mouth as he lifted shaky fingers and touched his lips, which not five seconds ago were in the business of snogging one genius of a violinist. He let that reality sink in.

 

John all but hummed with happiness and moved to Sherlock's mirror, looking at several pictures and notes clipped on it. Most of them were post cards with different drawings of cities on their covers, and various notes with reminders and schedules. John snorted fondly at a particularly complex one, wondering how on earth Sherlock could even decode what he had written to himself.

 

"He is a mass of oddness, isn't he?"

 

Upon hearing the foreign voice, John jumped on his place and spun around so quickly, he almost lost his balance. If the visiter hadn't thought that he was in the process of burgling, John thought, he certainly _would_ now. 

 

"Who-"

 

"Why, Sherlock, of course." The stranger said impatiently, as if John was being slow. "Though he does constantly insist that it is simply good organisation. Well, I cannot, exactly argue against that, now can I?Though you would know that si- _oh_."

 

The man suddenly stopped his trail of rambling and started looking at John as if he had grown a second head, and John immediately began feeling uneasy(and a bit frightened) in the presence of the poshly dressed man and wished he could shrink and simply hide away from those dark penetrating eyes.

 

"Of course." The man seemed to come to some sort of a realisation and grinned wolfishly. "You must be John Watson. I cannot express how pleased I am to meet you, at last. Sherlock has told me all about you." He said with what John thought was fake politeness and John resisted the urge to dart out of the room. 

 

"I'm afraid he'll be occupied elsewhere for a while: he was conversing with his fiancée last I saw him. But fret not," The man hurried to assure him. "I shall keep you company, while he-"

 

" _Excuse_ me," John snapped, his nostrils flaring dangerously. "but _who_ are you?" _And what the deuce do you mean by 'his fiancée?_  


 

"Oh, how rude of me." The man gasped and hurried to take off a glove and offered John a hand to shake. "The name's Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock's elder brother."

 

 

* * *

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                           _London, March 13th 1884_  


__

_ I'm sending you my sincere congratulations from Westminster, where I'm pleased to stay at Morstans' mansion. Not that you would care to know, or perhaps you would, and it would please you immensely to know how far I am from you and your precious fiancée _

 

_I'm sorry, that wasn't right of me. Forgive me for my harsh words. I simply cannot sleep, and I shouldn't even be writing this to you, I know you won't bother answering or reading this anyway(like you haven't bothered with my previous letters). In fact, I insist you don't write back. There's nothing left to say, and your brother's told me everything anyway. I should be in bed, resting before my date with Miss Mary tomorrow. Yes, you read correctly. I have a date. My father is adamant on his decision to marry us, bonding our families together. Maybe I will, who knows._

 

_I've also been told that you'll be coming to London, and the knowledge fills me with disgust...even as it fills me with joy. I want to see you again. I need to see you again. Not in a crowd of people, not after or during your concerts. Only us, in a quite place, perhaps in a lonely balcony of one of those stunning theatres where you perform now. I miss you so m_

__

_ Of all the letters that will be mailed out tomorrow, I think this one will be tossed into the fire. For that reason, I'll continue writing, because these thoughts have been haunting me since that day. What more was I to you than a lover? Was I anything more? Did you even use to feel the same way I do? Was I just a plaything to be tossed aside once you thought me unworthy? _

__

_ I'm heartsick, Sherlock. I feel as if my brooding has passed to everything and everyone surrounding me. I feel as if everyone here can feel how twisted up I feel inside, how empty of energy I've become. Even Mary doesn't enforce me with her company anymore. She dares not utter a single word, unless  I'm the one starting the conversation. Poor woman, I'm being so unfair towards her _

__

_ That day  I didn't have the chance to even greet you properly, to tell you how proud I felt when I saw you on stage that night. You've certainly reached glory and success, haven't you? You're a musical genius now and you'll be marrying one of the most beautiful women in London.  _

__

_ You confounded, idiotic man! You lied to me about your family, about where you had been staying, you broke my heart and even now, if you were to suddenly appear here, in front of me, if you were to ask for my heart again, even only to shatter it into million pieces, I'd give it to you. God knows, Sherlock, I would! _

__

_ I miss you. I want you with me. I want to see you and hold you in my arms again. I want to see you back in my rooms, to see you smile in the glow of my fireplace. I want you to call me your captain again and _

__

_ I'm never sending this. I can't believe I'm even writing this. It makes me feel no better. I just miss you and knowing that  you do not feel the same way pains me all the more. _

__

_ Oh Sherlock, I wish you were here... _

__

_                                                                                                                     To Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker St. _

 

* * *

 

 

 A few days later, in the evening, the young maestro was yet again standing under the high window of the gothic house, trying, in vain, to lure his beloved out with the magical sounds of his violin.

 

The window was closed. 

 

The young musician, though, didn't lose hope. The violin would call sometimes insistently, sometimes would  plead unashamedly, sometimes would speak brokenly, sometimes would moan painfully and weep helplessly.

 

The window was always closed.

 

After another two visits to the house, when his violin was letting out its last hopeless cry, one of the windows opened partially, and the violinist jerked his head up hopefully and then sobbed harshly, as one of the maidens had opened it to inform him that John Watson no longer lived there and to throw a _coin_ at his feet. 

 

He turned and walked away.

 

He didn't come back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you satisfied? I hope you are, because you did a _terrific_ job of disgracing the name of our family! I cannot even begin to imagine what kind of evil forces have settled upon your soul!" Harry Watson roared unashamedly and continued to aggressively pack her younger brother's clothes. "Do you even know _how many_ times I could've happily married after our dear mother's passing? Bless her gentle heart. I had so many young men at my feet, ready to court and lay their hearts open for me, and what did I do instead? I refused it all in order to raise and take care of my stupid-"

 

"-ungrateful and cruel little brother who does nothing good but flail around all day and shame the name of the Watsons. I know." John mumbled distractedly, standing near the open window and not even flinching at his sister's harsh words.

 

Harry turned and shot a glare at the back of John's head and continued to angrily stuff John's properties into a travel bag. "Yes. That's right. And what did you do? You broke her heart! And Mary... _Oh_ , Mary's such a sweet girl, she would've been such a caring and loving partner. But, no, you had to go off and ruin it all! Oh, just wait till father hears about this! He will be so dis-"

 

"I'm in love with him." came the simple reply from the far side of the window and Harry sighed in an impatient manner, which clearly said _'haven't you been listening to me at all?'_.

 

She abandoned her job for now and crossed the room to her prat of a brother and roughly grabbed his arm and turned him around, so he was facing her. John turned willingly, startled and more than impressed by his sister's strength.

 

"You are in love with a memory, John." Harry said seriously, looking him in the eyes. "With the memory of an eighteen year old Sherlock and nothing more. He's a grown man now. You saw him.  He's moved on, and it's time for you to move on, too."

 

"I...I know, Harry." John breathed in harshly, closing his eyes. "I just...can't help it."

 

"Oh, John..." Harry said regretfully, squeezing John's arm affectionally. "Loving and actually living with someone are two different things. Maybe you should reconsider, you know, about Mary. You'll get married and over time, eventually, you'll grow fond of her. Love doesn't just appear right away. No. It blossoms and grows and strengthens with joint and domestic life. She's patient and forgiving, she'll understand. You do know that when we go back, and when father learns that you've  ruined the union..."

 

"I don't care."

 

"- he'll send you off to the army!"

 

"Well, maybe I _want_ to join the army." John said defensively, and Harry looked at him with horror in her eyes. "In fact, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

 

"You...b-but you're short and stout and not even that athletic...how are you..." Harry sputtered, her nails digging painfully into John's arms. "You'll just get yourself killed!"

 

John smiled fondly at his sister, but rolled his eyes nonetheless. He leant and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'll be fine. I doubt I could ever make Mary happy, and father's always thought me a failure anyway."

 

"You're ruining your life." Harry accused weakly. "You're tossing rocks at your future." 

 

John didn't care.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                                                                                                                         _London, August 18th 1886_  


 

_My dear Sherlock,_

 

_I have to leave._

 

_I had hoped to see you again, to speak with you for the last time, but once again, I'm stuck with only words on a page. I might never see you again and I wanted so much to talk to you, to settle the pain in my wretched heart..._

 

_I might never come back. And you, you should forget me and be happy._

 

_To Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker St._

 

 

 

* * *

 

White.

 

Soft.

 

Cool.

 

Everything that Afghanistan wasn't.

 

John slowly opened his eyes.

The room he was in  was white, and reminded him of his old room in London, except this one was comparably smaller. A gentle breeze came in from the open window, making the white curtain sway. He was in a bed, a soft, gentle bed filled with white blankets. He felt so tired, but so good, all at once.

 

And there, at the end of the bed...

 

John lifted his head quickly, even too quickly as his neck and his whole body were aching all over. But it was not nearly as bad as it should be, because, by all means, he had to be dead. There was _no_ other way he could be seeing who he thought he was seeing. _"Sherlock?"_ he gasped.

 

The violinist jerked his head up in surprise, and both of them froze, staring at each other, and John's hands were clenched in trembling fists by his sides, because Sherlock was close, so close, that he could actually reach out and touch him. Not that he actually could, given that he could not even properly move from his place.

 

He didn't know how long they'd have sat, staring at each other, if it hadn't been for his need to shift a little on the pillows, to lessen the pressure on his bad shoulder. Sherlock turned his gaze to it, looking at John's shoulder so  intently, that John wanted to hide. Finally he had the man here, in front of him, _at last_ , and he was vulnerable and crippled and none of the words that had flowed so easily on paper would come to him. 

 

But Sherlock seemed mostly relieved and it gave John the courage to find his voice. "Sherlock?" he whispered again.

 

Sherlock _shuddered_ at his voice and shut his eyes tightly. "If you had died," Sherlock began, but his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. "If you had died, I would never have forgiven you."

 

John didn't say anything in reply. He didn't know what to say to that. He only knew that when he closed and opened his eyes, Sherlock wast still there, sitting at the far side of his bed, lost for words again. And he knew that his silence must be tormenting the violinist, he knew that he was being unfair toward the man and he winced at the thought.

 

 A movement Sherlock caught immediately.

 

"Are you alright? Where are you hurting?" The violinist asked, alarmed, instinctively abandoning his seat and rushing to John's side. Surprised, John could only stare as Sherlock ran his hands gently over his shoulder, arm and chest, methodically checking over the bandages, without a trace of the previous nervousness and-

 

And just  _how_ long had Sherlock been sitting there?  


"It looks like everything's in order." Sherlock said, continuing to rub circles on the expanse of skin, mindful of the injuries. "Are you feeling alright, though? Should I call a nurse or-"

"No. No, please." John assured quickly, snapping out of his trance and grasping Sherlock's probing fingers. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look a bit flushed, maybe-"

"Sherlock." John gently interrupted the violinist's rambling and Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. "It's fine. Truly."

Sherlock nodded reluctantly and John looked up with a soft, encouraging smile. John could not help but notice the expressiveness in the violinist's bright eyes, the unguarded affection shown in his gaze, the way his eyes crinkled adorably, whenever he was worried.  The candle light from the bedside table cast a soft, golden glow over Sherlock's smooth comely face, his rosy cheekbones and his mop of black curls.

And then Sherlock did something that made John's heart grow three times, his knees go weak and his mind go entirely blank: Sherlock smiled the sweetest of smiles and then looked away shyly, as if hurrying to hide away any other unwelcome emotions that could show on his face. And that, that was something, John would not tolerate.  He tugged at the violinist's arm and Sherlock thought he made a sound, some high pitched terrible noise, before he was falling into John's open and willing arms.

He found himself wrapped in the embrace, he'd missed for _so long_. John was clutching at him as if he'd be torn away if he let go, trying to pull the man closer by his tunic, probably his skin, too and he didn't care.

Sherlock hugged him with equal ardor, but with care, with such tenderness as if John would break under his hands. He held John as if the man was his greatest treasure, and Sherlock leaned against John, resting his chin against John's forehead, listening to John's shaky breaths and trying to control his own.

John didn't know how long he'd been clinging to Sherlock, warm arms wrapped around him, but when he opened his eyes Sherlock was still there, and they gazed at each other for a long time. He'd forgotten how blue Sherlock's eyes were. The last time he'd truly seen those eyes, they'd been in the theatre, in that damned dressing room...

It seemed Sherlock was thinking the same thing. "Finding you gone, knowing that I hadn't been able to make amends, to make things right, was like a tear in my soul. I admit, at the time, I did consider stopping writing to you, so you could find someone worthier, someone _so much better_ than me, who could make you happy and bear your children..." Sherlock swallowed thickly and brought up shaky hands to cradle John's face. "But I was all too selfish and weak to actually do so. And you deserved _none_ of what Mycroft said..."

"But your brother-"

"I've told you before and I'm telling you now: Mycroft is _no_ brother of mine." Sherlock hissed. Then softened his face into a less angry expression and carded a hand through the hair at John's nape. "If I were to give him a label of any sort, I'd say he was my archenemy, for he was the reason why I had ended up in the streets,  in the first place. And none of the words that meddling bastard told you, were true! He had been trying, for years now, to force me into courting the youngest daughter of Samuel Adler. He knew that you have always had a strong influence on me, and I know that I should've _said_ something...should've warned you and _oh_ , John I'm _so_ sorry."

He looked tired and wretched, almost as wretched as John had felt over their time apart. John reached his hand up to cup his cheek. "I believe you." he said. "And I should apologise, too. I should've given you the chance to explain, to actually say something-"

Sherlock shook his head, misery in his eyes. "You shouldn't. The only thing you should be sorry for is for saying sorry in the first place." John snorted lightly, but Sherlock continued, seriously. "But, John, you must trust me...there was nothing between me and...the woman. And even if there were something, it could never come anywhere close to what we have. I _swear_ , John..."

"Hey, stop right there." John murmured softly, and Sherlock exhaled harshly through his nose and stopped talking. John was still holding the side of Sherlock's face with his palm, and he carefully placed his other hand over Sherlock's heart and patted his chest. "It's alright. I trust you. If you say there was nothing, then there was nothing and- what?"

He frowned at the feeling of something crunching beneath his palm. Sherlock gave him a smile and reached within his tunic and pulled out parchment, and John stared, stunned. "You kept them?" he asked in disbelief. "You..."

"Read them and reread them." Sherlock admitted with a soft laugh. "I feel as if I know them by heart  by now. And I longed for you and missed you, just as much as you said you missed me."

For a moment John couldn't breathe, because Sherlock had kept them, had actually kept his letters.

 

"What would you have said?" John asked suddenly, startling Sherlock.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"One of the maids said you'd been coming over to my house after your...concert." John explained, propping himself up on his elbows. "And said that you'd been playing the violin. If I had been there and if I had let you in, what would you have said to me?"

 

Sherlock swallowed. "I don't know." he confessed, and John stopped breathing once again, as Sherlock reached and tentatively laced their fingers together. The action was so reminiscent of the times they had spent in John's garden, something they'd done so often when they'd been together, that John trembled, overwhelmed with emotions.

 

"I might have said what I'd felt when I came back to the dressing room and found you gone by my brother's doing."Sherlock shut his eyes, as if the only memory of the day caused him physical pain. "Or what I'd felt when your sister wrote to me that you'd been wounded, and I thought you lost."

 

He opened his eyes at last and met John's gaze with his. "But I know I would've said that you could never begin to imagine how _lost_ I felt without you. Or that you could never imagine how dear and precious you are to me. How much I...I love you, John Watson."

 

Sherlock waited with a hammering heart and held breath, watching for John's reaction, and his hesitant expression quickly turned into horrified when it became apparent that John was going to be sick.

 

He was about to faint. Right now, in front of Sherlock, still laying pathetically in that bed and he'd survived all of the war and the worst it had to throw at him, and just a few words from Sherlock were going to become his undoing. So he mastered all of his remaining strength and smiled broadly through his fresh tears and-

 

"And I love you, Sherlock Holmes." he murmured. "God, I love you _so_ much-"

Sherlock gulped back an ugly sob, as if he couldn't believe John's words, and all but threw himself at John, gathering the man in his arms. 

And John let him. He stayed there under the welcome weight of Sherlock's body and in the tight embrace, the violinist had engulfed him into. He closed his eyes contentedly listening to Sherlock's meaningful whispers of _'John John John. My John'_ and for the first time in a long time, John Watson didn't mind that his life had been ruined.

_ Fin. _

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is it.
> 
>  
> 
> I tried to keep the characters in character, as much as possible, without them actually being the same...characters.
> 
>  
> 
> English is not my native language, and as I have already mentioned this work is not betaed. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you liked it, and here's my tumblr if you have requests or questions or criticism...
> 
>  
> 
> janhawkins.tumblr.com


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